


Intended Parents

by FyrMaiden



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M, Surrogacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-23 01:09:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/920211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FyrMaiden/pseuds/FyrMaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Santana offers to be their egg donor, one day, if Blaine wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intended Parents

**Author's Note:**

> There was an idea for "surrogacy week" fic that went sort of nowhere in an awful way on tumblr, right before Cory's passing. I wrote this super quickly the week before that, but have only just typed it up and made any pass at editing it into submission. It has zero grounding in reality because I kinda figure no one is doing their personal surrogacy research based on fanfiction. (Also, I have a childish moment of weirdness discussing human eggs. Of the many ways I have not grown up, this is only the tip of the iceberg.)
> 
> As ever, no beta. I own all mistakes. I do not own Glee. Woo!

Santana’s voice is a shock to Blaine’s system when she calls him out of the blue. “Hey, shortstack,” she says, and Blaine breathes out sharply through his nose.

“Santana?”

“The very same. How’s my favourite gay hobbit?”

“Honestly? Surprised. What do you want?”

“I have to want something to call you now, B? I’m hurt.”

“No, you’re not. And historically, yes, you do.”

Santana’s laughter is honest and warm, and Blaine finds himself relaxing into it in a way that will always feel familiar. “Actually, I was going to offer you something,” she says. 

“Oh?” Blaine’s sure he knows what. He’s had this conversation with her before, a thousand times over, in a thousand different ways. He knows how it goes, but he wants to hear the words.

“I heard through the grapevine – and incidentally, I’m hurt you didn’t tell me yourself, B, I thought we were closer than that – that you and tall pale and immaculate are finally thinking about starting a family.” Blaine can virtually see the self-satisfied smirk, and his vision blurs as his heart hammers.

“Rachel had absolutely no right,” he begins, and then, “I just-”

“I figure we could,” she interrupts, and laughs and stops. “– look, Blaine, I know how you feel about this but – Wow, Jesus, this was easier in theory.”

“It’s easier when we’re drunk,” he supplies, and Santana laughs quietly.

“That, too. C’mon, don’t make me say it. It’s weird and embarrassingly impersonal offering over the phone.” 

Blaine smiles to himself as he listens, and lets himself drift.

*

Santana had been a good friend when he’d first moved to New York with nothing really planned out beyond the vague idea of a performance degree and the rest of his life with Kurt. She’d made time for him when Kurt was busy, got him heinously drunk more than once, and flirted the idea of heteroflexibility with him, handsily, in the lobbies of various hotels and clubs when people (men and women) couldn’t keep their hands off of his ass. In a way that was never true with Tina (much as Blaine had loved her during their senior year, when he’d just been so desperate for friends that were all his), Blaine had felt like Santana could have been _her_ , if either of them were straight or if Blaine himself were female. Santana became his girl in New York, in a big grown up way, the way Rachel had been Kurt’s when they’d rented that first loft in Bushwick. 

Their first New York Pride, Santana wore a faded t-shirt with ‘Lebanese’ across the chest, and had insisted Blaine wear an equally ratty one with ‘Likes Boys’ big enough to cover his entire torso. He’d protested at first - (“I think it’s kinda obvious?” he’d said, and Santana gave him a bitch glare of death and pulled it over his head anyway. All protestation and plucking at the material muted, however, when Kurt’s eyes had bugged out of his head and he’d kissed him hard enough to bruise in their kitchen) - but he spent that day revelling in not having to try so hard to prove his otherness, even as Santana got him drunk on sangria and cheap beer and had to physically prop him up on the subway ride home, laughing with him as his arms wound around her body. She called him a tactile drunk, but didn’t seem to mind when she buried her nose in his hair and breathed him in. 

Blaine remembers sitting beside her at some point, his head pillowed on her shoulder, tracing the letters on her chest idly. “You’re not Lebanese,” he said and she smiled down at the word. 

“No. But Brittany meant lesbian, and that’s what matters.” 

Blaine hummed non-commitment, lifting his head and his hands to play with the wild black tumble of her hair. “Do you miss her?” he asked eventually, and Santana shrugged. 

“Sometimes,” she said, her smile wistful and soft and strangely young. “Sure, sometimes I still miss her, in that way you always miss the first person you loved. We speak, she’s doing okay. I’m okay. I mean, I guess one day I’d like what you and Kurt have and I think part of me wishes it could have been her. We’re better as friends than lovers, though.” 

Blaine nodded and rested his head back down on her shoulder. She smelled reassuringly of girl and perfume and soap, and her hand was a gentle tattoo on his thigh. “Hey, B,” she said when she spoke again, her voice more serious. Blaine tried to focus his attention, turning his face to study hers. She met his eyes and heaved a sigh, gripping his hand instead of his leg. “I want – I want to offer you something.” 

“Mm?” 

“I-if you, you and Kurt, when you have babies. I want to offer you my eggs.” 

“Your eggs?” 

“Yeah. I mean, you – look at you. You’re perfect, you’d be great. I’d give you my eggs.” 

“Give?” 

“Yeah. I don’t – I’m not a mother. But you and Kurt, I just, I love you. Let me-” 

Blaine frowned and pulled her against him this time, rubbing her shoulder soothingly. “You’re drunk, Santana.” 

Which was true, but didn’t mean she wasn’t serious.

She didn’t mention it again until Blaine’s bachelor party. She organised a stripper (female), and planted herself in Blaine’s lap. “Got a special one for you,” she said, her breath full of sambuca and her eyes full of fire. “All the way from Kentucky.” Blaine buried his face in her hair as she laughed and thumped his shoulder. “White chocolate, baby. You remember.” Her laughter was raucous and Blaine felt the burn of embarrassment crawl up his cheeks and down his neck as he remembered exactly how many times he’d pictured Sam’s hairless muscled chest when he was 17, and how, four years later, Sam was still one of his closest friends. Blaine had been gutted when Sam said he couldn’t make the bachelor party, and Santana was still laughing when Blaine tipped her unceremoniously onto the floor to hug Sam tight against him. 

“Surprise!” Sam laughed as Blaine pulled back, taking in every inch of tanned perfect flesh.

“I kind of hate you both.”

It was later, sharing a cab back to his (and Kurt’s) cramped one bedroom apartment that Santana brought up kids again. “Think of it as a trade,” she said, “If that makes it easier. You can be the father of mine some day.”

“I thought you weren’t a mother?”

“No, I don’t think I am. But a mini one of you that I don’t have to return to its owner when I’m done would be cute.”

“He’s not my – we’re not having this discussion.”

Santana pouted and petted his leg. “You’re hot when you’re embarrassed.”

“Fuck off, Santana.”

“Blaine Devon Anderson. Do you kiss your husband with that mouth?”

Sam snorted a laugh from the front of the cab. “Trust me, he does more than kiss him with it.”

Blaine felt the blush creep down his throat again. “You can both be replaced,” he said, and contemplated leaving them on the sidewalk. He didn’t (and, in all honesty, probably wouldn’t), but he contemplated it all the same.

She mentioned it intermittently over the years, sometimes seriously, other times less so. Sometimes the subject even came up when they were both sober, matching one another ‘bitch please’ glare for glare over overpriced salad at the week’s favourite boutique deli. Sometimes she looked pensive and sad and, when she turned 30, she plopped herself down next to him at her party, batting away the concerned hands of her girlfriend, and said, apropos of nothing, “So, if you don’t want my eggs, how about you donate to the greater good instead?”

Blaine put his cup down slowly and deliberately. “I – what?”

“Make a baby with me, Blaine. You don’t – I get it. You don’t want to be a dad. But I’m – I can’t think of anyone whose kid I’d rather have.”

“I’m – you’re drunk. No, Santana. I don’t – I can’t – I’m not – Fuck. I can’t. My dad, and just – I can’t, and you’re drunk.”

She pouted her perfect scarlet lips at him, and Blaine admired the perfect sculpting of her vintage pin-up pin curls. She was glorious and, abstractly, he wasn’t unaware. He thought, intermittently, about their children. She wasn’t wrong; he thought they’d be beautiful too. 

It was his 30th birthday when he raised the subject with Kurt, and he expected wholeheartedly to be shut down. Kurt didn’t, though. He’d sipped his Zinfandel and listened as Blaine expanded upon the idea, talking too fast because he expected the refusal any moment. Instead, Kurt had set aside his wine and gripped Blaine’s hands tightly. Yes, he said, a tiny Blaine-esque rugrat would be perfect, would be adorable, and, he said, he couldn’t think of anything he would love more. Blaine blushed and changed the subject. He, personally, would rather have discussed using Kurt’s DNA. There was something flawed in his. Blaine’s personal list of his flaws included inherent neediness and crippling insecurity. (“And you’re beneficent, nurturing, inescapably kind,” Kurt murmured into his skin, tracing every one of Blaine’s sensitive spots, “You’re probably one of the few people I know who literally helps old ladies across the road and doesn’t get mugged or shot when you offer to carry groceries in from the car for strange women.”) Blaine countered that his father was not Burt Hummel, which made Kurt roll his eyes and Sam laugh when they went out for beer, fries, and pool. 

“He kinda was,” Sam said, pocketing the black and dusting his hands on his ass. “He kinda was for all of us for a few years there.” 

Besides, he said, he had a very straight, very charismatic older brother. (“Half-brother,” Santana reminded him, feeding him pomegranate salad.)

They were no closer to a resolution, however, by the time Kurt put his foot down about the fact they would be using Blaine’s sperm. (“It’s not like we can afford it anyway,” Blaine told Rachel over coffee as he waited for Kurt to finish shopping, picking miserably at his muffin.)

When Kurt joined them at their table, clutching his coffee between hands pink with the cold, she reaches to grip both their wrists. “If Santana won’t carry it,” she announced, beaming like the sun, “I’ll do it for you.” Blaine looked at Kurt, who stared at Rachel with flat confusion. “The baby,” Rachel continued. “I’ll even do it for nothing. Other than medical expenses, obviously.”

“There isn’t a baby to carry, Rach,” Kurt explained slowly, cautiously. Rachel said nothing, bit her lip and nodded lightly. “Rachel, don’t meddle,” Kurt said, the warning clear to Blaine’s ears. Rachel only nodded again, smiled, and twirled her way out of the coffee shop, her smile brighter than heaven as she walked. Blaine bit his lip and twitched a smile at Kurt, who laughed and dropped his head.

Two months later, Blaine is listening to Santana fumble her way through the offer again, somehow choking on it now that it’s real.

*

Blaine tries for patience as Santana mumbles her way through a repeat of the standard offer, only this time it comes interspersed with, “Wait. I mean, it won’t get infected by the Rachel in all of this, right? I mean, you can’t like, inherit that by proximity?” Blaine doesn’t say anything, because he knows Santana is smarter than this. He’s still not entirely sure he’s having this conversation, and he’s certainly not having it without Kurt.

“Santana, stop,” he says, voice stern and a little louder than hers. He thinks he can almost hear her jaw snap shut. “Have you even discussed this with Elouise?”

“Abstractly.”

“How about we all have dinner? Everyone involved.”

“Who’s everyone?”

“Kurt and I, you and Elouise, Rachel and Jeb.”

“Jeb?”

“Rachel’s husband, Santana.”

“Wow. He has a name. He’s not just ‘Rachel’s Plus One’?”

“Santana.”

“Fine, Jesus. You try to do one nice thing.”

“Christ, San, I don’t think I’m saying no this time.”

“Blaine!”

“Dinner. I’ll text you.”

 

As it turns out, Elouise does have objections. She can’t begin to understand how a baby that is genetically half her girlfriend’s won’t be partially their baby, too. Kurt says he doesn’t want to exclude Santana in any way – she’s one of Blaine’s best friends, and one day, if she wants, perhaps they’ll explain. She will not, however, be the baby’s mother. If Elouise can’t understand that, the conversation is over. Santana stares at Blaine, who stares at the table and his hands, and whispers something into her girlfriend’s ear. Elouise smiles and bumps her shoulder, and Santana says that’s fine, she’s better at being the cool aunt anyway. Rachel’s husband, who knows how much Rachel’s dads value their grandson, doesn’t say anything, although he looks suitably proud of her for the offer. (Kurt is proud of her as well. Rachel is often loud rude and selfish – traits he recognises equally in himself – but on this she has been flawless and he’ll never have the words to thank her.)

In the end, their biggest stumbling block is financial. Simply because the women are their friends doesn’t magic the money into existence.

Then Blaine’s parents offer them a lifeline, and Burt offers them equity from the shop. (“Just wanna hold that kid in my arms,” he says, gruff and burly and choked with emotion.) Blaine kisses Kurt so hard he can taste blood. This – this is now A Thing. They’re doing this Thing, together. “Your sperm,” Kurt breathes into his hair. “We need more of you around here.” Blaine could – and does, later – cry, his nerves a jangly mess and his body feeling like it’s flying apart on him. When they tell Santana, they’re all emotional. When it’s older, Blaine promises, they’ll explain the importance of all of their friends, when they inevitably have to explain two daddies and how it was the most wanted baby ever, but for now they are content to get very drunk and eat junk food and talk about clinics and trials and cost together.

When he moved to New York, this wasn’t the life that Blaine pictured. Right now, though, wrapped in the circle of Kurt’s arms and leaning back against his chest, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

**FIN  
08 August 13 **

**Author's Note:**

> Anything to say? Any ideas? General fangirling can be found on tumblr. [Come talk to me!](http://vampireisabitstrong.tumblr.com/ask)


End file.
